The Devil and Mr Holmes
by hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: What precisely happened after that dashing damsel-save in Karachi? Why did Sherlock end up back in London? And why is he now convinced that Irene Adler is a truly evil genius? Read and find out. Short, post "Scandal in Belgravia," obviously. Hard T for mention of naughtiness rather than naughtiness itself.
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer**__: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. _

** THE DEVIL AND MR. HOLMES**

_** Karachi**_

Something is licking his face.

Sherlock Holmes slowly cracks one eye open and blinks blearily. Stretches out his long, lank frame, registering how sore he is from sleeping on a wooden floor. He can feel a big, coarse tongue lapping at his nose and cheek- _disgusting_- the sound of early morning traffic deafening to his ears. Bright, annoying daylight is a hard and heavy as a hammer against his eyes. As his sight clears he sees two members of the Sindh police force staring down at him, a walkie-talkie held in one officer's hand, a hand-gun drawn in the other. Beside them a large German shepherd sits- _it is this which was licking his face_- the creature staring at him quizzically.

Sherlock frowns for a moment, his normally lightning-quick brain bogged down by tiredness. After all, he thinks, it's not like he got a lot of sleep last night- _The Woman saw to that_. At realising he's awake the two policemen start speaking to him slowly in Urdu, asking him (Sherlock suspects) whether he's alright. The one without the walkie-talkie is holding out a blanket, and it's then that Sherlock realises he's naked.

_ Well, _he thinks, slightly groggily, _how about that? _

He shakes his head though, trying to summon what basic elements of the language he knows. Goes to rise, wondering where Adler is (since he suspects she'd have as much trouble charming Pakistani policemen as she did their British counterparts). She is nowhere in sight however, and Sherlock can't bring himself to believe that bodes well. Especially since everything he brought to the safe house last night, including his clothing, is missing.

As he comes to this (slightly disturbing) realisation he hears the walkie-talkie carrying policeman bark with laughter, pointing to his backside. The detective frowns, not really the sort for modesty but not happy about being pointed at and snickered about all the same. _After all, hasn__'__t the policeman ever seen a naked man before? _But nevertheless he goes to turn around, trying to ascertain what the policeman is laughing at. As he does so he drops his sheet- _he has__** nothing **__to worry about in that department- _letting himself take in his bare feet, his bruised shins. His pale skin. All as expected and accounted for, not an unusual body part in sight. _He really doesn__'__t understand what all the fuss is about._ So he frowns again, tries to demand- in Urdu- what's so damn funny-

And that's when he sees the hand-written note, sellotaped to the small of his back, just above his arse. It's clearly reflected in the lone window pane behind him which still holds glass. It says (in both English and Urdu): _Property of Dr. John H. Watson, Esq. _

_ If lost, please return to 221b Baker Street, London A.S.A.P. Caution: he bites. _

For a moment he just stares at the note, unable to process just why it was put there. What on Earth could Adler be playing at, he thinks, leaving it like that? And then, as he stares, a small, brisk draft blows through the door to his right, shifting the note and revealing the fact that Adler has also placed two 20 pence stamps at exactly the centre of each of his arse-cheeks. The stamps slightly smudged from being slept on. The Queen's profile looking splendidly miffed at the disrespectful venue in which she's found herself. It comes together in Sherlock's head, the bloody cheek of The Woman, the jeering nature of the message-

And he thinks it, with a viciousness he hasn't felt in years:

_ When I get my hands on her again, I__'__m going to bloody __**murder**__ Irene Adler. _


	2. Chapter 2

_**Disclaimer**__: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to wickedwanton and dietplainlite. I had thought that this story was finished, but new ideas kept occurring to me, so this is probably now going to be at least three chapters; this one takes place during The Great Hiatus. _

** THE DEVIL AND MR. HOLMES**

_**San Diego**_

Doctor Who is poking him.

At least, a pretty, Asian girl who appears to be dressed up as Doctor Who- _the Tenth, if he__'__s not mistaken_- is poking him.

Sherlock knows that you can (and will) see some bloody weird things at ComicCon, but he thinks this might be the weirdest he's yet seen-

_ And he__'__s peeked inside Anderson__'__s porn collection. _

Not that _that _has any relevance to the current situation. It's just the sort of mental imagery that tends to wake a man up, a mental slap to the face if you will. It doesn't work though: He still can't remember how he came to be lying on the ground, being prodded by would-be Time Lords (or Ladies). Any more than he can remember why his feet are bare and he's covered in a sheet. He frowns, trying to piece together what he does remember: a woman's face flashes through his mind, one of Moriarty's most trusted lieutenants. This particular criminal apparently makes a point of coming to the Con every year, the only thing she does with any regularity. Mycroft had passed on the information and Sherlock had come here, hoping to identify the woman before she could hurt anyone else-

_ And that was why he__'__d brought Adler with him_, Sherlock suddenly remembers.

_ Apparently she knew Delgado- Well, she knew what she liked. _

It had seemed like a perfectly legitimate idea (at the time) to ask her to come along and identify the assassin. Sherlock had told her it was a way to pay him back for disappearing in Karachi, and The Woman had seemed to agree that it was worth her while. She'd come in in costume, staking the place out with her usual aplomb while Sherlock roamed the floor, also costumed but in something which covered both his face and torso. According to Mycroft's people, the disguise was called a "Chewbacca Suit," and it had certainly done its job well. Nobody had recognised him, and every other person he'd seen in a similar disguise had been as tall as he- _So score one, _he grudgingly admitted, _for Brother Dearest. _Unfortunately however, their subterfuge had been in vain: Adler admitted that she hadn't seen anyone who looked remotely like Delgado anywhere on the floor. Sherlock had told her that he wouldn't give up, that the event was huge and they were only at their first day at it-

And before he could explain precisely how he planned to pursue surveillance on an event this big with only his keen intellect and her scandalous self-possession for backup, Adler had dragged him into a cleaning cupboard in the bowels of the Conference Centre and proceeded to, well, Sherlock believed the term was _have her wicked way with him. _He really wished he could describe what had happened in a slightly more proactive fashion, but that was essentially what she'd done: She'd gotten him out of that suit and onto his back in a matter of moments, the memories of Karachi convincing some parts of his anatomy at least that this was a good idea. Sherlock had barely managed to unclip her from her costume- some sort skirted gold and brown arrangement which sported the most uncomfortable looking bra-top he'd ever seen- and then-

Well then, to quote John Watson, they'd made God and England proud, he was sure of it.

_ In fact, he was so sure he was surprised security hadn__'__t dropped by to cut their patriotic fervour short. _

Sherlock remembers her kissing him afterwards, her laughter wicked and wanton in his ear. She'd offered him some of her water and they'd actually… Good God, they'd cuddled._ Oh_, he thinks, without a hint of irony, _the horror_. Sherlock has vague memories of her warmth and then the world going black, the life seeming to drain out of him-

And the next thing he knew he was being assailed by Time Lords.

Petite, female Time Lords.

_ I really do have the oddest life, _he muses to himself_. _

"Look, dude," the young Asian woman says now, popping a massive bubble of pink gum and peering at him worriedly. "I know you don't wanna hear this if you're wasted, but you totally have to get out of here. They're closing up for the night."

By habit Sherlock logs her accent (Californian originally, but with a touch of New York in the consonants), just as he takes in her physical appearance. She has the stance of a former gymnast, strong and steady but she moves as if there's wear on her joints. _Not that that__'__s important here. _When he doesn't answer- too busy collecting data- she snaps her fingers in front of his eyes, gets into his personal space and asks whether he wants her to call him a nurse. Sherlock ignores her, trying to piece together what Adler might have dosed him with (for it's obvious she dosed him with something) and as he does so he goes to stand. He pushes the sheet away and it is then that he (finally realises) he is wearing Adler's gold lamé costume. The one with the uncomfortable bikini top. The one she called her Princess Leia special.

It is also the moment when he realises he's wearing Nothing Else.

For a second he and the little Asian woman stare at each other, too shocked to really break the silence. Her eyes keep moving across his torso and down towards his rear in a way that might almost be gratifying- _If, you know, he liked that sort of thing. Which he doesn't. _And then-

"Hey, Your Worshipfulness, she says, "If you're Princess Leia, I'll totally be your Han Solo."

And with that Sherlock is introduced to the woman who will eventually lead him to Marisol Delgado-

Several people wolf-whistle as he exits the cleaning cupboard and he silently vows that next time he's going to kill Adler with his own bare hands.


End file.
